The Yellow Book/Volume 3/To Salomé at St. James's

by Theodore William Graf Wratislaw

To Salomé at St. James's

By Theodore Wratislaw

 

Flower of the ballet's nightly mirth,Pleased with a trinket or a gown,Eternal as eternal earthYou dance the centuries down.

For you, my plaything, slight and light,Capricious, petulant and proud,With whom I sit and sup to-nightAmong the tawdry crowd,

Are she whose swift and sandalled feetAnd postured girlish beauty wonA pagan prize, for you unmeet,The head of Baptist John.

And after ages, when you sitA princess less in birth than power,Freed from the theatre's fume and heatTo kill an idle hour,

Here in the babbling room agleamWith scarlet lips and naked armsAnd such rich jewels as beseemThe painted damzel's charms,

Even now your tired and subtle faceBears record to the wondrous timeWhen from your limbs' lascivious graceSprang forth your splendid crime.

And though none deem it true, of thoseWho watch you in our banal ageLike some stray fairy glide and poseUpon a London stage,

Yet I to whom your frail capriceTurns for the moment ardent eyesHave seen the strength of love releaseYour sleeping memories.

I too am servant to your glance,I too am bent beneath your sway,My wonder! My desire! who danceMen's heads and hearts away.

Sweet arbitress of love and death,Unchanging on time's changing sands,You hold more lightly than a breathThe world between your hands!